


Sugar and Spice (and Everything Nice)

by subpardigans



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bakery, Cupcakes, Fluff, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subpardigans/pseuds/subpardigans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one Erik and add an entire Charles.  Mix on low setting until slowly blended and almost entirely fluff (with a dash of angst, to taste).  Add sprinkles of humor (dry).  Set to bake in a modern AU, with powers, for approximately six chapters (but, you know, AU temperatures may vary).  </p><p>Or, in other words, Charles owns a bakery in New York City. Erik has moved to NYC to start anew and they cross paths.  Charles pokes his nose where it's eventually wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gather ingredients!

**Author's Note:**

> This is unabashedly fluffy stuff. Sugar levels are high. I have no regrets. This can also be read as an expression of love to this whole fandom and everyone in it. Because I love you all!
> 
> Warning: I haven't written a fic in many, many years, so I'm a bit rusty on, er, using words. Any concrit is welcome! Especially since this hasn't been betaed- my apologies for any errors.

“We need more pain au chocolats, _stat_ ,” Raven said, “and we’re low on rose macarons too.  Charles? Charles? Hello?”

Charles was frozen mid-coffee grounds refill, staring out the rain-spattered window with a dreamy expression.  “Oh.” He dropped the coffee filter on the counter and moved towards the doorway.  “Oh, how wonderful.”

Raven stared after him with a resigned look.  This was his I’ve-just-sensed-another-mutant state, and she knew it all too well.  “You know, for a baker, you don’t spend much time baking,” she said to the back of his head.

Charles looked at her with a radiant grin.  “But Raven, there is an _amazingly_ strong mutant just down the corner, heading our way, and he’s lost _._ It would be terribly remiss of me not to come to his aid.”

She sighed.  “You realize that it’s pouring outside, right? And that we open in ten minutes?  Are these things not important to you?”

“I’ll be back in a tick,” was all he said in reply, before practically skipping out the door into the storm.

//

Erik had just begun to accept the fact that he was completely lost when the storm began – big, fat drops that soon turned into an unrelenting downpour and soaked him instantly.

_Typical,_ he thought bitterly, tossing what was now a wet pulpy mess of a map of Manhattan into a trashcan and heading towards the curb to hail a cab. He was supposed to be meeting with a broker to look at apartments in the area, but with this weather, he was more inclined to head back to his hotel—wherever it was.

_I hate this city,_ he thought moments later, when not a single cab had stopped for him.

He was on the verge of using his power to _make_ an off-duty cab pull over to let him in when he felt someone tug on his arm. 

He turned to see that a short young man with bright blue eyes, a cheerful grin and a truly awful cardigan was the culprit.  “Quick, come inside,” the stranger urged, his voice light and earnest and British, before dragging Erik with surprising strength towards a shop. 

“It’s all right, I was going to get a cab,” Erik protested as they went, somewhat shocked that a stranger was being presumptuous enough to grab and steer him towards anywhere.

“Let it go,” the young man insisted, opening the door to the shop.  “Cabs never stop for you if it’s raining.  It’s one of those New York rules.  Now come in!”  He punctuated this last command by ushering Erik through the door of the shop and closing it shut behind them.

Erik stumbled a bit, jarred by the sudden transition to warm and dry air. Strong hands briefly steadied him from behind and then severed contact, as if sensing his discomfort at being touched. 

He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was dripping water onto the worn wooden floor of what seemed to be a bakery, if the display case of pastries and the overpowering smells of chocolate and butter were anything to go by.  The walls were a warm gold, with dark blue-hued beams and trim.  Quaint wicker chairs and marble-topped tables were scattered around the small, dimly lit shop, although Erik had the sense that on a sunny day, it would be bright and airy and cheerful.

He’d never felt more out of his depth. 

“Ah, now then,” his rescuer began, distracting Erik from his thoughts. “I’m sure you’d like to be out of that wet jacket,” he continued, and immediately, Erik was very aware of how soaked he was.

His unlikely savior held out his hands.  “Allow me?”

“Thank you,” Erik said grudgingly, as helpful hands peeled off his coat.

The man hung it on a coat rack along with his own sopping cardigan.  “It was so dreadful out there, I couldn’t stand to see you drown.”

“I appreciate it,” Erik said warily, watching as the man donned an apron and somehow managed to look completely natural in it.

He returned Erik’s gaze with a smile.  “Welcome to my shop, Sugar and Spice,” he said, gesturing vaguely around at the walls.  “I’m Charles Xavier.” He held out a hand.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Erik returned, grasping his hand.  He was somewhat skeptical of his claim—surely no owner of a bakery wore tweed and waistcoats and cardigans, but on the other hand, Erik hadn’t had any prior encounters with bakers.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Charles beamed.  His hand was warm and soft, but kept a firm grip on his own. 

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Erik said, a little cautiously, as they dropped hands.  He found his rescuer’s intense blue eyes a bit unsettling.

There was a pause.

“Well then,” said Charles, brightly, before the silence stretched out too long, “how about some tea?”

“Really Charles, have the decency to offer the man something besides boiled plant water,” Erik heard a woman say, and noticed with a start that a pretty young blonde had been watching them from the doorway of the kitchen.  She looked as though it were completely normal for Charles to burst into their shop with complete strangers in tow.

Erik did not exactly find that thought comforting. 

“Hi, I’m Raven,” she said to him, “Charles’ sister, and apparently the only one with a sense of hospitality in the family.”

“Mm, we'll set that to rights,” Charles said, assuming a fierce expression of renewed purpose now that he’d apparently remembered that he was the proprietor of a bakery.  He turned to Erik.  “Choose anything you want—on the house!”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Erik demurred, but Charles looked so crestfallen that he amended, “but—I mean, if you insist—”

“Oh I do, I do,” he said, brightening instantly.  “What would you like?  Our cupcakes are fantastic, if I do say so myself.”

Erik heard Raven snort at this. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he said, overwhelmed by the trays upon trays of cupcakes.  “I guess… surprise me.”

“Aha,” Charles said, eyes gleaming with a sense of challenge.  “As you wish.  Let’s see how well I can choose for you.”

He got up and ducked under the counter to join Raven in looking at the options. “Go ahead and sit down,” he called back to Erik.  “I’ll be right with you.”

Erik looked around and noticed with pleasant surprise that one of the tables for two nearest to the display case had a chessboard-patterned tabletop.  He’d never had enough free time to devote to games, but chess had always been one of the few in which he’d indulged. Somewhat calmed by this familiar sight, he sat and turned his attention back to his two unlikely hosts.

“What are you today, again?” Charles was asking Raven.

“Raspberry dark chocolate with blueberries,” she answered. 

Erik blinked.  _What?_

He saw Charles shake his head.  “Hmm…what else is there?”

“We have lots of Angel,” she offered, before seeing Erik’s confused expression. “‘Angel’ is our lemon cheesecake batter cupcake, with dark chocolate frosting swirled with lime and garnished with two wing-shaped sugar wafers.”  She smirked at his look of astonishment.  “I know. It’s divine.”

“Angels usually are,” Charles said absently, tapping his bottom lip with his finger.  “But no…nothing with chocolate, I don’t think,” he murmured, eyes flicking over to Erik with a speculative gaze.

Erik twitched at this unnervingly accurate deduction.  His intense dislike of chocolate, a souvenir from his Shaw years, was hardly something that could be determined from looks.

Raven pursed her lips.  “Well, because one of us is a total slacker baker, the only thing we have without chocolate at the moment is you.”

Erik frowned in confusion.

“Then I’ll have to do,” Charles said with a smile, reaching down and selecting a fluffy white and cream colored cupcake from the display case.  Erik squinted and saw a tiny label next to the tray, with 'The Professor' written in cursive script.

“How does vanilla cardamom cake with walnut buttercream ganache and a coffee cream filling sound?” he asked, handing Erik the cupcake on a plate with a flourish. 

“Delicious,” Erik said honestly, taking the plate from his hands with care, “but… how is this supposed to be you?”

“We name cupcakes after our employees and some of our regular customers,” Raven explained.  “Charles is eerily adept at creating cupcakes true to people’s character traits.” 

Well, that explained Charles’ weirdly on-point deduction about Erik’s feelings towards chocolate. “What are you, again?” he asked Raven, curious despite himself.

“Oh, well, today I’m dark chocolate and raspberry with blueberries, but really I’m the daily special wildcard, ‘Mystique’, because I’m always… changing up my looks.”

“Raven,” Charles said lightly, but Erik thought he caught a faint tone of alarm.

She gave him a defiant look that Charles returned with pursed lips and made Erik wonder if he was missing something.

Charles sighed and turned back to him.  “Er… would you like a fork?”

“Sure, thank you.”  It seemed like a more dignified way to eat a cupcake.  That is, if there was such a thing as a dignified way to eat a cupcake.

He surreptitiously watched Charles as he went to a shelf laden with silverware and canisters of sprinkles. He seemed to be a man of boundless energy, practically bleeding happiness and innocence with every movement, yet he also had a quiet power about him, a sort of easy confidence in the way he carried himself that intrigued him.

“Here you are.” Charles placed a fork in front of him.  “You don’t want to add any sprinkles, do you?”

Erik made a face.  “No, thanks.” 

He laughed.  “I didn’t think so. I’ll just get some napkins, then.”

Erik picked up the fork and let the thrum of stainless steel settle between his fingers like a comforting little hug.  _Hello,_ he thought fondly, letting the metal warm in his hand.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charles turn towards him, his eyes questioning. 

He raised his eyebrows and Charles shrugged and turned away again.

He closed his eyes, spreading his awareness to the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, the metal trim of the display case, the silverware stock at the other end of the shop.  Just getting in tune with all the metal in the room was enough to put him more at ease.

He opened his eyes and saw that Charles had returned once again and was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Do you approve of our forks?”

He flushed a little. “Just lost in thought,” he explained, “but yes, your forks are… are great.”  What was he even saying?

Charles laughed.  “Go on then, try it!” he urged, then shook his head. “No, wait, I want to make sure you get the ratio of cake to icing right—may I?” he asked, hand outstretched for the fork.

Erik handed the fork to Charles warily, watching as he meticulously carved out a first bite proportioned to his satisfaction.  “Here,” he murmured, raising the fork to Erik’s mouth.

Erik blinked.  “Are you really about to hand-feed me your cupcake?”

“Yes,” Charles replied unabashedly.  “Now, open sesame.”

Against his better judgment, Erik gave in to the surrealism of the moment and complied.

For his obedience, he got a fluffy morsel of cake infused with flavors of vanilla and cardamom that made a perfect blend of sweet and rich. The walnut butter cream ganache had a depth of flavor he would never have expected of icing, which balanced out with creamiest of coffee-flavored fillings. Combined, the flavors unfurled in his mouth to make the perfect antidote to his horrible day. It didn't even matter that he was soaking wet, completely lost, and, until just now, completely alone in this god-awful city; he was eating pure happiness.

The only thing really missing was a nice cup of—

Coffee slid into his view, and he looked up to see Charles beaming at him.  He frowned in confusion. “I didn’t ask—”

Charles dismissively waved a hand.  “Who wouldn’t want coffee with a cupcake? Don’t worry—it’s also on the house.”

“Thank you,” Erik said again, beginning to feel as though that was all he was capable of saying.  “Wait,” he realized suddenly, frowning.  Charles had been standing in front of him for a while.  When had he—?

“Yes, I was hiding a cup of coffee behind my back,” Charles admitted, looking sheepish. “I’m an old hand at this.  I know what people like with which desserts.”

“He’s also _ridiculous_ ,” Raven noted from the counter.

“Well, thank you again,” Erik said, increasingly fascinated by this odd man.  He took a sip and found it had just the right amount of milk added, and no sugar, as he liked it. 

“You’re very welcome.  It’s my pleasure.”  Charles slipped into the seat across from him and rested his chin on his hands.  “So how is it?”

“Delicious and amazing, of course,” Erik replied, feeling pleasantly warmed by the sight of Charles beaming at him, unless it was just the heat of his coffee.

“I’m glad,” Charles said, handing him his fork.  “I trust you can handle the rest on your own?”

“Thank you, yes,” Erik said, unable to help grinning.  Between the cupcake, the coffee and the amiable company, a feeling worrisomely akin to contentment was creeping up on him. 

His thoughts drifted back to Charles’ cupcakes and their curious origins. “So, basically,” he began, between mouthfuls of cupcake, “I’m eating your autobiography?”

Charles’ lip quirked.  “I suppose so, yes.  Or, perhaps more accurately, my self-portrait?  Seeing as cupcakes are more visual?”

“Well, either way, you’re very delicious,” Erik said, before realizing how that sounded and letting out a laugh.  “I mean—”

“I understand,” Charles smiled, biting his lip.

Erik shook his head, too surprised at how foreign his own laugh had sounded to him to be embarrassed. He scooped up another bite of cupcake and savored it rather than dwelling on the sad implications of _that_.  “So, why call your cupcake ‘The Professor’?”

“Oh,” Charles blinked.  “Simply because I used to be one.  I taught biology and genetics at NYU.”

Erik raised a brow.  Charles didn’t look older than thirty.  “A bit young to have put such a career behind you already, aren’t you?”

Charles laughed.  “Perhaps,” he agreed, “and my goodness, I loved teaching, really, I did.  But,” he paused, frowning, “I don’t know, there was something missing.  I just needed to switch gears for a bit.”

Erik stared at him.  “So you opened a bakery.”

“Ah, well, my mother was never very domestic, so perhaps I’m compensating for that?”

“No, it’s because _he’s ridiculous,_ ” Raven said again, on her way back from wiping down tables. 

“And I roped my wonderful, amazing sister into helping me run it,” he grinned.

 “I see,” Erik said.  He really could visualize Charles as a professor, actually—he certainly dressed for it, at least.  But Erik couldn’t begrudge his change of heart if these delicious cupcakes were the result.  The proof was…in the pastries, so to speak. 

He focused his gaze on the chessboard table under his fingers.  “And why the chess board?”

“We actually keep a whole stack of board games on the back shelf,” Charles explained, gesturing vaguely towards a tall bookcase in the corner filled with books and games.  “We thought it would be nice for people to be able to kick back a little while they eat.”

Erik nodded. “That’s a sweet idea.”

Charles frowned.  “Well, sort of.  We used to keep this particular table board set with all the pieces, but people kept stealing them.”

“Usually the queens,” Raven put in.  “But we are near Chelsea, after all.”

“Really, Raven,” Charles rolled his eyes.  “It got to be a bit of a bother, always replacing them, so we stopped.  Which is such a pity, because chess is my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Erik said, inordinately pleased that they had this in common.  “You’re still missing pieces?”

“Yes, both queens and a knight,” Charles groused. 

"Hmm," Erik mused.  "I do some metal work--I could replace them very easily," he said after a pause, not quite sure why he was offering to do this.  Actually, he wasn't quite sure what he was doing still imposing on people he'd just met in a bakery, either.

“Oh you do, do you?” Charles asked with delight, looking amused.  “Something of a natural talent?”

Erik gave him a strange look.  “I suppose so?” 

“Indeed,” he said, smiling as he leaned forward and propped his chin up on his hands.  He seemed to have this air of knowing some inside joke that Erik wasn’t part of, a trait that was somehow both incredibly exasperating and endearing at the same time. “Well, I would certainly appreciate that very much.  Perhaps then we could have a match.”

“I’ll see to it, then,” Erik promised, still feeling vaguely unsettled.

“Brilliant. But enough about me.” Charles waved a hand dismissively.  “What’s brought you to New York?”

_Murdering my parents’ killer, covering it up, getting away with it, skipping town?_ Erik mused humorlessly, trying to devise an answer.

Charles blinked serenely at him while waiting. 

“I’m starting over here, actually,” he began, pausing to take a sip of coffee.  “In fact, I was trying to find a certain apartment for a showing with a broker when I got lost and it started raining.”

“Oh,” Charles said, exchanging a look with Raven.  “That’s—so funny actually, we have a studio apartment available for rent in this building.”

Erik stared at him.  “I—pardon?”

“Well, basically, I own this entire building,” Charles said as lightly as possible, but Erik had read up at least a little bit on real estate prices in Manhattan and knew that what Charles was actually saying was _well, basically, I’m really loaded_.

“That’s…” He didn’t really know why he was speaking; he had no idea what to say.

Charles beamed at him.  “I mean, if you’re interested at all, I’d be happy to show it to you.  I’d ask $800 a month, utilities included.”

“That’s outrageously cheap for this area,” Erik protested.  “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Charles promised. “It’s nothing fancy, but if you’re not picky, it’s lovable.”

“I’m not picky,” Erik assured him, hardly believing his luck.

“Excellent!” Charles grinned.  “Would you like to go ahead and see it now? I could show you around.”

“Er,” Erik glanced at his watch and winced.  “Much as I would love to today”—and he found, to his surprise, that he genuinely did wish that he could spend the whole day here—“I have to get to a meeting soon, but I could come in any time this week.  My hotel room is paid through the next five days, so there’s not really a rush.”  And this chance encounter with Charles was rapidly spiraling beyond his expectations; he could use some time to think about all of this.

“Then come by any time.  I’m sure we can find some way to fit you in,” said Charles, still grinning.  He stood from his chair and gave Erik a nod.  “Go ahead and finish your coffee, I’m going to fetch an umbrella from upstairs.”

“You’re going out too?” Raven asked, echoing Erik’s surprise. 

Charles gave them both an impatient look.  “Yes, to walk Erik back to his hotel.”

Erik frowned.  “That’s not necessary, really,” he protested.

Charles raised an eyebrow.  “Yes, it is,” he insisted.  “Do you even know what street we’re on?”

Erik gritted his teeth.  “Bleecker?”

Charles shook his head, biting back a smile.  “And that, my friend, is why I’m walking you back to your hotel.” He spun on his heel and headed towards the door.  “I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder, before disappearing outside.

Erik sighed, mind reeling from all the… _goodwill_ he’d been subjected to in the last hour.  Charles had gone from making him feel uneasy and on edge to content and happy and calm all at the same time in a confusing jumble of thoughts. 

“Why would he do all of this for me?” he asked Raven, who had watched this turn of events with the same nonchalance as everything else that had happened since Charles had shoved him through the bakery entrance.  “Offer a room for rent? Make it insanely cheap? Walk me back to my goddamn hotel?”

“Charles likes helping people,” she shrugged.  “And he… tends to be able to take an accurate measure of a man.”

_His gauge must be failing him_ , Erik thought grimly.

Raven raised an eyebrow.  “But I mean, also, do you really think Charles hand-feeds pastries to _every_ customer?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said dryly, making her laugh.  But she brought up a good point.  Charles was…candid and ebullient and had no sense of boundaries to speak of, and seemed to have warmed to the idea of taking Erik under his wing indefinitely.

“For whatever reason, he’s taken a liking to you,” she said more seriously.  “My advice is: trust him.”

Erik opened his mouth to push the issue of _but why me,_ but the clanging of the front door heralded Charles’ return.

“Sorry, I could only find one umbrella.  But it should be big enough for the both of us,” he said, holding up a long white umbrella.  “Ready?”

Erik downed the last of his coffee and stood up.  “Sure,” he agreed, shrugging on his damp leather jacket with a grimace.

“Luckily, the Washington Square Hotel isn’t too far from here,” Charles said, “so we won’t be more than fifteen minutes in the rain.”

“Ah, good.”  Erik paused, his sense of unease suddenly back in full force.  “Sorry—how did you know which hotel I’m staying in?”

A look of something like guilt flashed over Charles’ face. “Ah, didn’t you mention it earlier?”

“I don’t recall hearing him say that,” Raven said, looking at him reprovingly.

Charles gave her a pained look.  “I must have assumed it then,” he shrugged, giving Erik a winsome smile.  “It’s the only nice hotel nearby, after all.  Logical deduction on my part. Um, shall we get going?”

“Right,” Erik said, before turning to Raven.  “It was nice meeting you,” he said politely.

“You too.  Remember what I said.”  She gave him a significant look. 

“I will,” Erik said grudgingly, well aware that Charles was regarding them both with raised eyebrows.

Raven nodded and turned to her brother.  “And Charles?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You should take off your apron before you go out in public.”

“Oh.” He blinked.  “Right—thank you.”  He went about undoing the ties and gave Erik an apologetic look as he fumbled.  “Sorry for the holdup.”

 “That’s alright,” Erik assured him, as Raven sighed and went back to puttering around the shop. “As long as you’re sure you’ll be alright on your own,” he called over to her, feeling the slightest bit guilty that Charles was abandoning her.  “Otherwise I’m sure Charles could just write down directions for me.”

She shook her head.  “Oh, please, you needn’t worry about me. Charles is always getting distracted.”

Charles gave her an apologetic look.  “Sorry my dear,” he closed his eyes.  “But Hank is on—Hank should be on his way in soon, his train was late.  I mean, it was probably just late.  He’ll be able to keep you company.”

 Raven’s expression softened a little at that, and Erik assumed that Hank was an employee very dear to her.

Charles hung up his apron and dusted his hands.  “Well, then, off we go,” he said, before throwing open the front door and opening the umbrella into the rain. 

Erik hurried to slip underneath the protection of the umbrella next to Charles and braced himself against the oncoming cold.

//


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello! You guys are so awesome! Your responses have been such a pleasure to read and I’m so overwhelmed by all the love! With that said, I’m so sorry that it has taken so long to update… a barrage of RL problems came my way and I’m only just getting back on my feet, etc., etc. Thank you for being so patient and wonderful!
> 
> Also, many thanks to my friend forsanethaec for editing this chapter to the point of practically co-writing, as well aso for lending me her crutches when I needed them, ahaha. You’re a lifesaver, dear! Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Despite assurances that one umbrella was large enough for the both of them, it still required a fair bit of huddling and encroaching on personal space, and left Erik a bit uncomfortable.  If Charles hadn’t proven to be such a genuinely benevolent person since their initial encounter, Erik almost would have suspected him of deliberately taking just one umbrella, given that their forced close proximity allowed him to lean in close and continually brush shoulders with him.

“And this is the narrowest house in Manhattan,” Charles was saying as they walked. “Just nine feet wide, I think.  Ridiculous, isn’t it?  Even more ridiculous is that the anthropologist Margaret Mead used to live there.  Can you imagine?”

“No,” Erik said honestly, although he’d lived in much more cramped and decrepit spaces than a nine-foot-wide house, with far worse company than Margaret Mead, ever since Shaw had murdered his parents.

Charles seemed to deflate a little, although Erik couldn’t imagine why, unless the dark turn his thoughts had taken was somehow contagious. With effort, he quelled those memories and decided a change of subject was in order. 

“I know I’ve already said this, but, you’ve really gone above and beyond for me.”  He left the _and why is that, exactly_ unsaid, but Charles’ faint, wry smile indicated he’d caught it nonetheless.

“Don't be silly.  I just feel like maybe you weren’t welcomed to New York City with the open arms that you deserve.” 

Erik stared at him.  “That’s hardly cause to help a complete stranger—and under no account would I deserve to be welcomed to New York with open arms.”

He watched Charles’ brow furrow in confusion.  “Well, you’re a human being, aren’t you?”

“In theory,” Erik shrugged. “But that hardly qualifies me for such trust.”

“Ah, but you see, I believe in the innate goodness and trustworthiness of human beings,” Charles said with a grin.

Erik grit his teeth.  “That’s an unfortunate misapprehension.” Especially concerning himself. Killing Shaw had been necessary; an end goal that he had hoped would bring some closure. But in the end, putting a coin through Shaw’s head had simply solidified his longstanding belief that he was irreparably monstrous.  And here was Charles, without the faintest idea that he was walking in step and brushing shoulders with a killer.

“Oh, dear.” He looked over to see Charles grimacing.  “I believe in, er, honoring differences of opinion as well,” he said, rubbing his forehead.  “And I am far too sober for an argument over human nature, so we should probably table this discussion for a later date.  Agreed?”

“Fine,” Erik conceded, torn between being irked at Charles’ naïveté and pleased that he was already planning future meet ups.

They walked along in companionable silence for a bit, until Erik gradually realized he had hit familiar territory.

Charles seemed to sense that as well.  “Know where you are?”

Erik nodded.  “I remember this park.”

“Ah, yes.” Charles reassumed his tour guide role.  “This is Washington Square Park, and about as much of a central campus as NYU can hope for.”

Some combination of fondness and exasperation in his tone made Erik look at him. “Do you miss it? Teaching here?”

“Yes and no,” Charles mused.  “The hectic pace of an academic environment is always a thrill, but it wore me down.  I wanted to leave before I got burnt out.  But starting anew is thrilling in its own way, too, isn’t it?” He gave Erik a knowing smile. 

“Only if you know what you’re starting,” Erik pointed out.

“Planning is so much fun though,” Charles argued.  “In fact…”

Erik waited patiently for him to finish, but he’d trailed off and looked completely lost in thought.  “Charles?” he prompted.

“Hm?” He looked back at him and seemed to come down to earth again.  “Oh, sorry, my friend, I was suddenly…worlds away.  Forgive me, what were you saying?”

From anyone else, the presumptuousness of addressing him as _my friend_ would have rankled, but somehow, coming from Charles, it just seemed natural. 

He shook his head.  “Nothing, you were talking about the joy of planning things?”

“Oh, right,” Charles blinked.  “Wasn’t important, and, well, here we are, actually,” he said, stopping short in front of Erik’s hotel.  “We’ll have to finish our conversation another time if you’ve a meeting to get to.”

“Of course,” Erik said, suppressing regret.  “Thank you again.” 

“It was my pleasure,” Charles assured him, smiling.  “And do come by anytime this week. Here’s my number.”

He handed Erik his card, then clasped his hand in an oddly comforting handshake.

“Thanks,” Erik said, pocketing his card. “Have a—good evening.”

“And you as well, my friend,” Charles returned, beaming at him.  “So lovely to have met you.  See you soon!”

“Right,” Erik said awkwardly, unequipped to deal with such effusive courtesy.  “Bye.”

He watched him walk away, not sure what to make of the fact that he felt Charles’ absence acutely already, before sighing and entering his hotel.

//

He found Emma waiting for him in the hotel lobby on a white chaise lounge.

“Emma,” he said quietly, as he came to a stop in front of her.  She was staring blankly at some point beyond him, a slight frown creasing her brow.  He sighed.  “Emma,” he repeated, a little louder.

She blinked and came to life, as it were. “Oh,” she said, focusing on him.  “Erik.  My apologies.  I was worlds away.”

He sighed.  “I hate it when you do that—eavesdropping, or mentally talking to someone else, or whatever it is you do that makes you drift off.”

Emma crinkled her brow. “Don’t be silly, I’m just as capable of getting lost in thought as anyone else.”

“Right. Just not usually in your own.”

Emma huffed. “Enough of your griping.  I got all your papers in order, as you asked. You’re staying in New York?”

“Thank you, dear.  Yes, I think so,” he frowned. “You aren’t?” The prospect was startling—Emma had been his constant companion for years now.

She shook her head.  “Sugar, there’s nothing quite like collaborating on a murder to forge a bond between two people, but believe me, it's better if we’re not seen together or in close proximity for a while.”

Erik gave her a grudging nod.  He could see the merits of that.

“Besides,” she went on, “I need to go off and do my own thing for a while, and I suspect you do, too.” She smiled at him in a way that almost made her look sweet. 

He blinked, looking at her in a new light.  She was vulnerable too, in her own way, and killing Shaw had damaged her. He hadn’t really thought about the ramifications of mentally experiencing someone else’s death.

She lost the smile.  “Save your armchair psychology for someone else, dear.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged.  _I just worry,_ he thought at a mental volume that made her eyes narrow. 

But she ignored it.  “Here are you are,” she said, handing him a neatly marked manila envelope.  “The most important things. A driver’s license, checkbook, bank statements, et cetera.  You still have your passport, right?”  At Erik’s nod, she went on.  “Use these well—lay low, find a boring job or something, I don’t know.  I, for one, am going to California.” 

“That’s quite a change of pace,” Erik noted.  He sighed, the reality of their parting beginning to hit him fully.  As a fellow survivor of Shaw’s serial killings, Emma had been by his side ever since she’d tracked him down and proposed a joint revenge-killing five years prior.  Her absence would be…an adjustment.

Emma gave him a pitying look that he hated.  “That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, dear.  Although to be honest, I think you’ll be in good hands here.”

He caught the pointed knowingness of her remark and refocused on her.  “What do you mean?”

She smiled.  “Don’t play dumb—I mean the adorable thing that dropped you off here at the hotel, of course.”

 “You mean Charles?  I’ve only just met him.”  He stared at her in confusion before it clicked.  “Emma, don’t tell me you read his mind.”

A strange look crossed her face, but disappeared as quickly as it came.  “You’re wishing that I had.”

“Stop reading _my_ mind.”

“I don’t have to—you’re not guarding your expressions as well as you think.”  She paused to revel in her smugness before relenting.  “Oh, I’ll tell you what—he’s harmless and thinks you’re handsome.  You should probably sleep with him.”

Erik stared at her.  “Really? That's all?”

Emma rolled her eyes.  “‘That’s all?’  A billionaire baker has set his sights on you and you’re asking for more information?” She pursed her lips and fixed a stern look on him. “You need to find a positive anchor in your life, Erik Lehnsherr.  Settle down for a bit; enjoy normal life.  Stop and smell the roses.  You’ve never tried it before.”

“I meant more about his personality, likes and dislikes—”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do respect the privacy of others sometimes,” she interrupted, looking unusually rattled.  She stood up and handed him a briefcase.  “Here, the rest of your papers, and enough cash to keep you on your feet for a few months.”

Erik let the conversation drop and nodded.  “Thank you, I don’t know how you do it,” he said, taking the briefcase from her with a hyperawareness of the hotel clerk and doorman watching them.

Emma’s eyes flicked over to the staff members and then back at him. She shrugged and offered a hand.  “They won’t remember anything,” she promised.  “But I will always cherish this time spent with you.”

Erik mirrored the wry twist of her lips. “It was nice knowing you too.”

She hesitated, and Erik looked at her warily.  “No, let’s not do that awkward farewell hug thing,” she said decisively.

Erik had to laugh.  “Of course not.” It was the best they could do under the circumstances of being two people completely incapable of openly expressing affection. “Take care, Emma.”

“Cheers,” she nodded, before exiting the Washington Square Hotel and leaving it considerably less classy than it had been with her in it.  

//

Erik stayed standing alone in the hotel lobby after Emma left, feeling a little at sea. Eventually he wandered out into the park for lack of anything better to do.

He ate falafel from a little hole-in-the-wall place on MacDougal Street, even as Emma’s voice whispered disapprovingly through his head, _you can do better than this, I left you enough money to not have to skimp,_ but it was cheap—$2.50 for a sandwich—and delicious and that was about all he cared about. 

_I can take care of myself,_ he thought back at her, annoyed that she was still mothering him even after they had formally separated. 

_I hope so,_ she imparted, a ripple of vicarious concern flooding through him before his mind was his own again. 

Back in his hotel room, he leaned back against the headboard of the bed and let his mind wander as he took in the view from his window.

It didn’t take much reflection to acknowledge that encountering Charles Xavier earlier that afternoon had made the rest of the day something of a letdown.  He still couldn’t quite believe what an impression Charles had made on him in so little time.  Plenty of others had had an impact on his life, to be sure, but never such a positive one. Charles had offered shelter, delicious baked goods, and even a more permanent living situation.  Erik, who had gone so many nights without any real sustenance, couldn’t quite shake the significance of receiving food, much less being offered a place to call his own. 

In short, meeting Charles had thrown him for a loop.  It left him pondering his next move, which required a bit of introspection that was probably long overdue. 

He’d never given much thought to what his post-Shaw life dreams might be.  He’d poured all his anger and energy into finding Shaw in order to avenge his parents.  Murdering him was supposed to have been the apex of his life achievements, and to be honest, he hadn’t really expected to come out all right on the other side of it.

Emma had approached it differently.  She’d distanced herself from her personal vendetta with Shaw to give herself clarity of mind.  “Don’t think of it as vengeance, per se,” she had advised Erik, during their initial plotting.  “It’s preventative societal care.  We’re killing him so that he won’t do the same to others what he did to us.”

Erik hadn’t been able to see things her way, really. He wondered if her way of looking at things had saved her the aftermath he was now facing.In the end, his parents were still dead because Shaw had taken an interest in him.  And with Shaw dead too, his anger had no focus.  All he had left was corrosive guilt.

_Shh, sleep,_ flowed across his mind, followed by the mental equivalent of soothing his brow—probably Emma, although it didn't feel like her familiar mental signature, and her clumsy attempts at keeping his nightmares at bay during their early years together felt nothing like the practiced hand that quelled his inner doubts and regrets now.  Foreign feelings of comfort washed over him and his troubling memories receded.

The unfamiliarity of it all would have been more alarming if Erik hadn’t felt so at peace, and sleep came easily to him for the first time in years.

//

It was overcast but not raining when Erik woke up the next morning.  He’d slept soundly for the first time he could recall in a long time, but the unfamiliar feeling of being well-rested was more unnerving than anything else.

Fight or flight, he mused as he dressed, that was the question.  But this was the first time he was debating against the alien emotion of not actually wanting to leave. 

On the other hand, in Erik’s experience, when a good thing came along, either it was taken away, or Erik fucked it up all on his own. 

Emma wanted him to try staying here, to settle down.  But the thought of _settling down_ or thinking of anything in the long term was terrifying.  He could try staying and dealing with whatever came his way head on, or he could avoid the whole mess of risking a deep relationship with those who had taken an interest in him, and start over somewhere else as some sort of hazy approximation of the nomadic lifestyle he was used to. 

He thought of how well he’d fit with Charles, even just within hours of meeting him, before remembering the obvious asterisk that he was secretly a killer.  He couldn’t see those two elements coalescing as anything other than heartbreak in the future.

So – flight, then. That was the only choice left to him. He steeled his nerves as he brushed his teeth. Maybe it was cowardly.  Maybe, if he was to be completely honest with himself, he was really just afraid, but staying in New York offered too many unknowns.  

And even if Charles Xavier was perhaps the most tempting, genuinely good one of those unknowns that had come along so far – well, he couldn’t take the risk.

It would be best to leave as soon as possible – tonight, if he could manage it.

//

Whether out of some long-lost sense of cordiality or just a sense of obligation that the memory of Charles’ deep blue eyes reinforced, Erik’s resolve weakened enough by the time he left his hotel that he felt compelled to stop by the bakery to say farewell.

Besides, he needed breakfast.

As he walked, he was shocked to find that he seemed to intuitively remember how to get back to the bakery.  He hadn’t ever had such a reliable sense memory before, but perhaps his unconscious mind was turning over a new leaf.  Or maybe New York just came more naturally to him than he’d thought.

He followed West 4th Street through the cobblestoned roads of the oldest part of the Village and slowed as he neared the familiar intersection where Sugar and Spice took up the corner with its bright yellow awning and blue-painted, wood trimmed storefront. 

After checking that it was open, he stepped inside and immediately sensed that Charles wasn’t there.  The whole shop just seemed less…vibrant.  Like yesterday, it was also completely devoid of customers.

He caught sight of a bespectacled young man busy restocking cupcakes into the display case and cleared his throat.

The man jumped and stood up.  “Hello! How can I help you?” he asked cheerfully enough, albeit looking flustered and a little embarrassed that Erik had managed to startle him. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he weren’t used to speaking much, or at an audible volume.

“Hello,” Erik said.  “I was here yesterday—Charles might have mentioned…?”

“Oh yeah, the German guy,” the man said, somehow even more cheerfully.  It seemed to Erik that it was sort of a nervous cheerfulness, if that was possible.  But that, at least, was more familiar to him, as he was used to inducing anxiety in others.  “Raven mentioned you.  Erik, right?”

Erik nodded. 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Hank. Sorry though, Charles had to emergency-cover for a class at NYU, so he won’t be back for a couple of hours.  But he should definitely be around tomorrow, if you wanted to see him.”

Erik sighed.  This certainly put a wrinkle in his plans for leaving tonight. “Is he always so busy?”

Hank shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess.  Charles has his fingers in a lot of pies…but they’re, um, charitable pies? And, hey, uh, some real ones too – if you want to try. We were voted best key lime pie in the city,” he segued clumsily, allowing himself an ironic smile.

Erik waved a dismissive hand.  “That’s alright, but thanks.” He blinked and looked around. “Does anyone ever come in here?”

“Yeah, actually,” Hank said, a little defensively.  “We’re a few hours from the lunch rush.  And school doesn’t get out until mid-afternoon, so there’ll be another rush around then.” He cocked his head suddenly, not unlike a dog, as if he were listening for something.  “Tell you what, come by tomorrow at 3 pm and it’ll not only be busy, but Charles will definitely be here.”

“Excellent, thanks,” Erik said.  He pondered leaving, but the smell of coffee and baked goods was enticing, and he’d planned to get breakfast here anyhow.  “So which one are you?” he asked.

“What?” Hank blinked at him, as if he were startled that Erik was still bothering to attempt conversation.  “Oh—of the cupcakes?  I’m Beast.”

“Beast,” Erik repeated, searching out the corresponding label in the display case. 

“Pomegranate red velvet cake with vanilla marzipan frosting topped with blue gummi bears,” Hank pointed out. 

“Very patriotic,” Erik noted.  “Why the gummi bears?”

He looked up and saw with surprise that Hank was blushing.  “Raven may have once called me a teddy bear,” he mumbled, looking away.

“Huh.”  Erik sensed this wasn’t the whole story, but he wasn’t going to push it.  “I see.  What do you recommend?”

“Well, depends on what you like—Charles likes to play around with spices, hence the name of the shop.  ‘Havok’ is pretty popular, as well as my personal favorite—vanilla bean cake with mocha frosting spiked with cayenne pepper and chocolate truffle shavings.”

“That does sound interesting,” Erik admitted, “but I’m not much of one for chocolate, actually.”

“Oh,” Hank said, as if he couldn’t process such a concept.  “Um… hm.  Well, that leaves ‘the Darwin,’ a cabernet sauvignon cake with almond and mascarpone ganache, or, hang on, let me check what Mystique is today—”

He broke off to look, pushing up his glasses to peer at one of the rows of cupcakes.  “Vanilla cake with strawberry tarragon icing,” he reported back.

Erik considered them briefly, already fairly sure he was just going to order the Professor again.  “Sorry to make you run through all of those, but I think I’m just going to get what I got yesterday after all, if you have it—‘the Professor’?”

“Oh, of course, forgot about that one,” Hank said amiably, plucking a wax paper wrapper from the top of the display case and extracting a cupcake.  “Yesterday was your first time here, right?” At Erik’s nod, he went on.  “Customers tend to be loyal to whatever cupcake was the first one they tried.  Charles calls it cupcake-imprinting.”

“People stick to what they know, and fear what’s different,” Erik agreed. 

Hank laughed, seeming to be a little bit more at ease with Erik.  “Even with cupcakes!  Humans are funny things, aren’t they?”

“Indeed,” Erik muttered.  “How much do I owe you?  Oh, and actually, could I get a small coffee, too?”

“Sure, one sec,” Hank said, turning away to fill up a cup.  “For here or to go?”

“For here, I guess,” Erik said, an impulsive answer that was probably based on the irrational hope that Charles might come back early while he was still here. 

“That’ll be five dollars even,” Hank said, facing him again. “We have half and half, whole milk, two percent, skim, and soy at the bar over there.”

“Thanks,” Erik said, handing him a five. 

“Enjoy,” Hank said, disappearing into the kitchen as Erik grabbed his cupcake and coffee and headed to the chess table.

It was strange; yesterday he had felt so out of place here, yet now it already felt familiar and welcoming.  And now that he was here again, enjoying his cupcake and coffee and remembering Charles’ kindness yesterday, he felt his resolve to leave New York waning.

In hindsight, a predictable problem. But his hotel room _was_ paid for the next few days… and what Charles was offering was a good opportunity, really.  He just needed to stop being a baby. 

Wait—that sounded like— _Emma,_ he thought angrily.  _You can’t masquerade as my inner voice of reason._

_Clearly you have no inner voice of reason, otherwise I wouldn’t have to,_ she shot back.   _I leave for California tomorrow, so I’ll be out of your range soon enough.  But I better not have to come back to set you straight._

_I can handle myself,_ he insisted, for what seemed like the hundredth time.

_You’d better,_ she warned, before—hopefully—leaving him alone.

Sighing, he turned his attention to surreptitiously observing Hank, who, as a shy, nerdy type, seemed an unlikely candidate for the role of bakery cashier.  Then again, he fit in well with the quiet hipster chic of the area as Erik had come to know it. He wondered what, if anything, had led to Hank’s timid disposition.  

After finishing his cupcake, he licked his fork clean and eyed it speculatively.  Simple stainless steel, with a stamp from IKEA on the base of the handle.  He checked that Hank was looking the other way before swiftly compacting it into a dense cylinder and remodeling it as a chess piece.  What was it Charles had said they were missing?  A queen? 

Well, now they were missing a fork, but in its place was a sleek queen chess piece.  He added some detail on the crown and made sure the base was level before setting it on the table in its proper square. 

Ridiculously pleased with himself, he brought his empty plate and mug back to the counter.  “Charles mentioned you were missing some chess pieces,” he said, nodding towards the chess table.  “I, ah… brought one I made, just as a thank you for yesterday.”

At Hank’s questioning look, he added, “he wouldn’t let me pay for the cupcake he gave me.”

“Oh,” Hank nodded. “Yeah, he does that.  No worries, I’ll make sure he gets it and let him know you stopped by.”

“Thanks,” said Erik.  “Tomorrow at 3, you said?”

“Yep.  I’ll tell Charles to expect you,” Hank confirmed.  “Have a good day!”

“You too,” Erik said, before making his way out.

If Hank noticed that he had returned his plate without a fork, he didn’t mention it.

//

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case some pastry explanations in order… Darwin’s cupcake is cabernet sauvignon-based because the grapes used for cab savs are especially hearty and can flourish under any conditions (thanks for that knowledge goes to Paul Giamatti’s monologue about wine grapes from the movie “Sideways.” Sigh.) If any other pastry choices need justifying, don't hesitate to ask!
> 
> Sorry this chapter was a bit choppy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to everyone for reading! Treasuring all the feedback and wallowing a bit in guilt for yet another not-so-timely update. Thank you for bearing with me! Enjoy!

III.

It was raining again the following afternoon, but at this point Erik was getting used to New York’s penchant for making his life miserable, and not even the threat of getting soaked was enough to deter him from making good on his promise to Hank that he would be back to see Charles. 

Hank hadn't been exaggerating--the bakery was a madhouse when he arrived at 3, and chaotic enough that he could barely get through the door.

He was shouldering his way through swathes of students and other eager patrons when he thought he heard Charles’ voice.

He turned to see him waving from behind the cash register and looking a little worn around the edges, his sleeves rolled up and shirt collar unbuttoned to expose the hollow of his throat. A prominent smudge of flour on his flushed cheekbone was both endearing and vaguely reminiscent of war paint. 

“It’ll die down in a bit,” Charles said, sounding like that moment couldn’t come too soon.  “Sorry my attention will be divided until then—but it’s good to see you came back!  I got your chess piece, by the way.  Thank you so much, it’s lovely.  Want a raspberry rugelach?”

 “I’d love one,” Erik said, surprised and touched that Charles was welcoming him back so warmly, as if he were an old friend.

A flaky pastry appeared in front of him, wrapped in wax paper.  “Thanks,” he said, biting into it and promptly getting crumbs everywhere. 

“Not to worry,” Charles laughed, seeing his look of dismay.  “Happens to the best of us.”

Erik sighed and brushed the crumbs off of his shirt as best he could.  “We’ll call it even, seeing as you have flour on your face.” 

“Oh, how silly!” Charles’ hand flew to his cheek.  “Where? Here?”  He scrubbed at his face.

“No, other side,” Erik said, as Charles continued to miss it.  “I could—let me—” he broke off as Charles stilled and let him reach out to swipe his thumb across the offending flour, dusting it off. 

“Thank you,” he said warmly.

Erik’s thumb tingled from the contact.  “No problem,” he shrugged.

A customer made it to the register and Charles turned away to greet her.  “The Professor, excellent choice!” he told her, winking.  “Will that be all for today?”

“Yes, thank you—I’ve got to watch my weight, you know.” The woman made a self-deprecating face, while Erik rolled his eyes.

“Oh, pish posh!” Charles scoffed.  “You’re beautiful.  And you deserve a beautiful cupcake to match.”

She giggled her thanks as he handed back her change and moved on. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Erik said, as he polished off the last of his rugelach.

“Making people happy is my bread and butter,” Charles justified, before looking thoughtful.  “Even if I never actually engage with real bread and butter.  This is a pastry shop, you know.  We can’t have nutritional things like bread lying about.”

A short young man sidled up next, cutting off whatever might have been the rest of their conversation with a sluggish hello.

“Sean!” Charles greeted with more enthusiasm.  “The Banshee, again?”

“Is it vain to keep ordering myself?” the young man asked, as Charles pushed forward a pink cupcake piled high with light green icing.  “I don’t know how you do it, prof, but I never get tired of it.”

Charles beamed at him.  “I’m flattered. Any tea with that?”

Sean wrinkled his nose.  “That’s all right, thanks.” He paid Charles and looked around for an empty table.  “Any other mu—mutual friends here?” he asked, stumbling oddly over the ‘m.’

“Yes, Darwin’s in the corner,” said Charles.  “He’s looking for a jenga partner, if you’re interested.”

Sean’s face lit up.  “Cool.  Thanks, prof!” He swiped his cupcake off the counter and headed to the back.

“A regular, I take it?” Erik asked.

“Yes—sour cherry cake with tequila lime icing, to be exact.”

“Sounds a bit much.”

“Well, Sean can be too,” Charles said, grinning.  “He goes to Xavier High School up at 16th St… a bit of a schlep from here, actually, but he makes the seven block trek down Seventh Avenue pretty regularly.” 

Erik raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you somehow own that school, too?”

“Oh dear no, the name’s just a coincidence,” Charles said hurriedly.  “Saint Francis Xavier High School.  Founded _well_ before I came around.  But rest assured, I get no end of jokes about it—ah, hello, how are you today?”

Erik repressed a sigh as Charles dealt with another customer.  He stared down ruefully at the empty wax paper wrapper in his hand.  The rugelach had been delicious, but over much too soon—and sinfully buttery, with the sweet bite of pure raspberry preserves twisted around the dough… not in the traditional crescent roll shape he’d known in his youth, but rather more like a DNA helix.

“Oh,” He heard Charles breathe, and he looked up, concerned, but the steady stream of customers had petered out and he was finished ringing up the last one.  Now he was just staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher—pleasure, admiration? 

“What?”

“Nothing really,” he dismissed.  “Just—sometimes I forget, I mean, it’s just, you know how wonderful it is to see how other people perceive things?”

Erik frowned at him, not quite understanding what he was getting at.

"Never mind," Charles shook his head, still smiling.  "Here, try this new lemon ginger tea that Hank concocted.”   He handed Erik a steaming mug with a fancy muslin sachet tea bag floating inside.  “But do let it steep another minute or so.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Erik began, “but—”

“It’s on the house,” Charles cut in firmly. 

How did he always know? “That’s—”

“Absolutely warranted,” he interrupted again.  “The perks of being a tenant above the shop as well, by the way, and therefore all the more reason for you to consider moving in.”

Erik sighed.  “Much as I’d love to, I really don’t know what my long term plans are, so it seems foolhardy to make such a commitment.”

“Oh, but Erik,” Charles pleaded.  “That’s so easily fixed. I’d be happy to do a month-to-month lease.”

Erik narrowed his eyes, considering.

“I mean, you haven’t even seen the apartment yet,” Charles went on. “I think you’d like it.”

“I’d decided earlier that I wasn’t going to stay in New York much longer,” Erik said honestly, even though the more he’d thought about it since yesterday, the more he’d come to side with Emma in thinking that fleeing was an irrational choice.  Charles may have upended his vague plan to blend into New York City with relative anonymity and solitude, but he was also offering Erik a life far more interesting than just being a face in the crowd.  He just needed a little bit more time to think about things, and for the first time in his life, he had the luxury of an open schedule. Nothing dire was pressuring him to make any snap decisions and act accordingly.  

Charles stilled and regarded him with contemplative expression.  “Then I won’t press the issue, but please do know that the opportunity is still open.” 

“Well,” Erik said, swallowing, at a loss for words.  He had the unnerving thought that Charles was consciously treating him with cautious calm, much like one would handle a stray cat—never being too forward and overbearing, but always gentle and patient.

He felt there were moments, like this one, where Charles looked at him like he knew everything about him—but of course that couldn't be true, because then he wouldn’t come even close to associating with him at all, if he knew about his past.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured.

Charles smiled enigmatically and plucked Erik’s teabag out with a set of tongs.  “Should be perfectly steeped, now.”

Erik dutifully took a sip.  “It’s got a nice bite to it,” he said approvingly. 

“That’ll be the ginger.  Too overpowering for the citrus?”

“No, it’s good,” Erik assured him. 

They drank in pleasant silence for a bit.  Erik didn’t know if he’d ever been so in tune with another person.  His relationship with Emma, the only other candidate for the position of being his friend, had been born from a sort of grudging acceptance of having to work with one another to achieve a grisly end for a mutual enemy. 

He shifted, becoming aware of how close they were leaning together – the barely perceptible body heat from Charles, and how, if he surreptitiously inhaled, he caught the scent of herbal teas, spices, and something earthen, like whole grains. He decided he liked it. “You strike me as the type that loves people-watching,” he said, after a moment. 

“Oh, completely,” Charles agreed, taking the sudden topic of conversation in stride as he sipped daintily at his tea.  “There’s nothing better.”

“So,” Erik gestured around the people milling about in the shop, “what are their stories?”

“All quite interesting,” Charles assured him.  “Most of our young patrons go to the local high school or, like Hank, NYU.  Which is how I met him, actually. He was incredibly put out when I quit teaching, but, he followed me here, so, all’s well that ends well.  We just discuss things like the effects of agave nectar on cake texture more frequently than the human genome.”

“How dedicated of him,” Erik said, smiling.  It was easy to see how someone as charismatic as Charles could attract such loyal disciples. “And Raven—does she also go to NYU?”

Charles shook his head.  “She’s not in college currently.”

“Then she’s still in high school?”  Erik asked, surprised. 

“Oh no, she graduated a couple years ago, she’s just taking her time to figure out what she wants.”  Erik raised his eyebrows, thinking of how academically oriented Charles seemed to be in comparison. 

Charles gave him a wry smile.  “Yes, if I had my druthers she’d be in college by now, but she’s a free spirit.  It’s an old point of contention between us, but I’ve come to realize that I can’t be the overbearing big brother forever.”  His face softened.  “She’s a smart cookie no matter what, though. Right now she’s auditing a couple classes at NYU, just to test things out.  I think she’ll eventually apply to the school of individualized studies, if she decides she likes the whole college thing after all.”

He let out a sigh.  “And speak of the devil—”

Erik blinked and looked around; Raven wasn’t in sight—but then suddenly she appeared through the doorway of the kitchen with a huge mixing bowl in hand.

“Charles, test it,” she ordered, thrusting the bowl of creamy coffee-colored icing into Charles’ face.  “Oh, hi Erik,” she added, with a bit less force.

Erik nodded.  “Hello.  How are you?”

“Good.  I’d be even better if Charles didn’t insist on personally approving every batch of icing I make.”

“Nonsense, you’d be cast adrift in a sea of subpar icings if you didn’t have me around,” said Charles, as he dipped his finger in the icing and sucked on it thoughtfully.

Erik’s mouth went dry.

“More amaretto,” he concluded after a pause. “Lots more.”

Raven rolled her eyes.  “Not everyone is the alcoholic you are, Charles,” she teased, while Erik struggled to pull himself together.

“Well, maybe Erik should try it,” Charles suggested, turning his full attention to him.  “If he likes.”

Erik swallowed, feeling a bit hot under Charles’ gaze.  “I’d… be happy to settle a dispute if it involves sampling icing.”

“Excellent.”  Charles hesitated, looking for a moment as though he wanted to simply dip his finger back in the icing and offer it to him—or maybe Erik was just guilty of wishful thinking.  Instead, after a brief search, he found a spoon and scooped up a sample.  “Here.”

Erik took the spoon and licked it clean, trying not to also relish the sight of Charles’ eyes growing very round— _that_ wasn’t just his imagination.  “Needs more amaretto,” he concluded, the pleasant aftertaste of chocolate and almonds warm on his tongue.

“Oh, we’re going to get along splendidly, I can tell,” Charles said delightedly, even as Raven gave them both a look of disgust.

“Panderer,” she scowled at Erik.  “You’ll be a bad influence on Charles if you stick around, I can already see it.”

Erik sighed.  “Yes, well, that’s up in the air—”

“But if you _did_ stick around,” Charles interrupted him with an earnest look, “you’d always be able to taste-test our food experiments.” He indicated the chocolate amaretto mixture with one hand.  “This is just the icing on the cake,” he said, before blinking. “Er, quite literally.”

“How about unlimited free coffee, you’d get that too,” Raven added. 

Well, that was definitely a tempting plus in Erik’s book.  “But I really don’t know my long term plans,” he protested, giving Charles a frustrated look.  They’d been over this already.

“Whatever,” Raven shrugged.  “That just means you don’t have anything holding you back from saying yes.”

Charles hid a grin.  “What a spectacular way of seeing it, Raven.  I completely agree.”

She sniffed.  “Thank you.”

Charles folded his hands.  “The point is, there is a room available for you, you’d get free coffee and baked goods, and we like you.”

Erik stared at the two beseeching baker siblings in front of him and couldn’t help but feel something in his heart relent.  He’d never met two more genuine and welcoming people in his life, and he found that he desperately wanted to cling on to the warmth they’d already offered him. 

His inner turmoil surfaced as a reluctant sigh, and whatever was left of his resolve to leave melted away.  “Alright, why not.”

“Yes!”  Raven and Charles chorused, turning to high-five each other and nearly dropping the bowl of icing in the process. 

“Dude,” the young man from earlier spoke up—Sean, or something? He’d drifted back over to return his plate. “You’ve just been a victim of the two-pronged Xavier Maneuver.”

“Oh, Sean,” Raven dismissed, but she was smiling. 

“Come on,” Charles said, grabbing a set of keys from the drawer under the counter.  “Let’s go check out your new apartment.”

“Right now? Really?” Erik blinked.

Charles turned and fixed him with wide blue eyes.  “Why not? Aren’t you curious?”

“Well, yes, but—aren’t you busy working at the moment?”

Raven waved them off.  “You have my blessing; I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Thank you, dear,” Charles said.  He reached out to touch Erik’s shoulder hesitantly, as if to ask permission, before settling more firmly down on his shoulder.  “Shall we?”

They ducked out of the shop, enduring the rain briefly as they turned to the set of wooden double doors on the other side of the storefront window. 

“These get stuck occasionally, especially when it’s humid,” Charles said apologetically, shouldering his way into the entranceway.

“That’s fine,” Erik said, as Charles fiddled with the keys and undid the lock of the inner front door.  The entrance was old and elegant, with worn wooden paneling and gold trim.  He liked the feel of it, and the lock on the door was strong and durable.

“It’s four floors up, I’m afraid,” Charles warned, opening the door and waving Erik through.  The hallway had a simple black and white tiled floor with exposed brick walls.  “Trash courtyard’s just through that door,” he said, nodding towards a door on the right, “and the stairs are around the corner.”

Erik sensed them before he saw them—heavy, ornate cast-iron railings winding up around the staircase, punctuated with posts at every turn.  “How old is this building?” he asked, curious.

Charles tilted his head. “Mm, there’s an unfortunate lack of data on this particular building, but the whole area began to spring up in the 1800s.”  He frowned as he started the climb up the stairs ahead of Erik.  “However, when NYU excavated a building a couple blocks away, the earliest pottery they unearthed there had British manufacture stamps from the mid-nineteenth century, so around then would be my guess.” 

“Interesting,” Erik murmured, as they rounded the landing to the second floor.  He was startled to find what looked like claw marks along part of the wall of the corridor. 

Charles followed his gaze. “Furniture scrapes,” he shrugged. “In these older buildings, the narrower hallways make moving in a bit of an endeavor. Thank god for flat-packed furniture.”

Erik frowned. Yes, four stories would make moving a bit of a haul, now that he thought about it—unless he got all metal furniture.  Then he would just have to avoid getting caught levitating furniture up four flights of stairs.

“There’s actually already a bed in the studio, but of course, if you don't like it or it’s too small, we can remove it,” Charles said, huffing a little bit as they climbed.  “I don’t know what else you’ll be wanting, but perhaps you’ll get a better sense when you see it.”

They reached the fourth floor and Charles led Erik to a blue door at the end of the hall.  “Number 19,” he said, opening the door and showing Erik in with a flourish.

It was, as Charles had initially described, nothing fancy, but lovable.  The front door opened up into a kitchen on the right, with a windowed divider setting it apart from the rest of the sunlit studio.  To the left was the bathroom, which sported slate blue walls.

“Clawfoot tub,” Charles pointed out.  “Very old school.”

“That’s nice, classy,” Erik said, peeking his head in.  “Marble tile?”

“Yes.  We had it redone last fall, actually.”

Erik nodded.  “Looks good.”  He sighed, his shoulders relaxing a little.  Inane exchanges about interior furnishing were kind of soothing, in their own way.  He could get used to this.

He moved on to investigate the rest of the apartment, Charles hovering behind.  The room opened up into a small living area with two windows on the far wall.  The bed Charles had mentioned was a twin size metal frame set against the left wall, with one end pushed up to rest under one of the windows.  It left a fair amount of space to the right under the second window for… a table, maybe, or a nice chair.

“Wonderful thought, a comfy armchair would be so lovely there,” Charles agreed, before turning pink.  “Oh, blast.”

After his initial bewilderment, Erik’s first thought was, _of course._ Every little thing he hadn’t thought too hard about where Charles was concerned fell neatly into place, even before his conscious mind fully caught up to helpfully point out: _he’s a telepath._

Charles began talking again as Erik stared at him. “I blew it.  I knew I would.  I’m so sorry.  It’s such a betrayal of trust, I know…”

Erik lost track of what he was saying in order to process everything, remembering the uncanny instances like Charles knowing how he liked his coffee, what hotel he was staying in, even the pointed remarks about his affinity with metal.  And Emma had reacted so strangely to his questions about Charles—probably because they’d already had intensive mental conversations with one another.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and tuned back in to Charles, whose babbling had escalated in response to Erik’s silence.  “…I understand if you decide to leave and never come back, I really was going to tell you—”

“Charles,” he interrupted, shaking his head.  “Please.  I’m not angry.”

Startled, Charles quieted and joined Erik on the edge of the bed, but maintained a mournful stare.  He was so different from Emma, yet it suited him, somehow, to be a telepath.  He was so self-assured and empathetic—well, usually, when he wasn’t wrapped up in his own guilt—and had a bit of that same perpetual smugness that Emma had in spades.  Erik didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it sooner.

Charles, if anything, looked even more distraught.  “I did sort of maybe discourage you a tiny bit from putting the pieces together, but only because I didn’t want to spook you away,” he confessed, before wincing.  “Oh! I just did it again. You think very loudly sometimes, you know.”  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “I’m sorry, I’m not handling this well at all, am I?”

“Spook me away?” Erik repeated, eyebrows raised.  “I am not some sort of stray cat, Charles.”

Charles gave him a skeptical look.  “If you say so.”  He bit his lip.  “Not everyone is as accepting of telepathy as you seem to be, you know.”

Erik remembered how distrustful he’d been of Emma when she’d first sought him out and sighed.  If anything, Charles was the one who should be spooked at him, given that he’d used his own powers to shove a coin through the head of his parents’ killer.  The worst thing Charles had done was slight mental editing to protect his secrets from Erik. 

His thought process stuttered at the sudden realization that there was no reason Charles _didn't_ know about his own past, and his insides twisted at the thought. “If you’ve been in my head, you must know… you must have seen—” He broke off, unable to voice it.  “How much did you see?”  He settled for asking, after clearing his throat.

Charles stared at him for a moment before replying.  “Everything,” he finally said, making Erik’s heart do a lot of erratic things, but mostly sink.  “Not intentionally,” he added hastily.  “I just sort of… fell in.  While I was making coffee in the shop and letting my mind wander.”  He smiled.  “Oh, it was amazing, Erik, your mind was—is—so lovely, and you don’t even realize. I mean, everyone’s mind is lovely, I suppose, in their own ways, but you have such inner strength and vitality and passion and determination to make your own way, no holds barred, and I _love_ it.  And yet you’re harboring such pain on your own as well—but you are so strong in spite of it.  You’ve endured so much, Erik.  I couldn’t learn so much about you and then not be able to meet you. I’m glad I ran after you in the rain.”  He blinked as he came to a stop, looking surprised and a bit sheepish that he’d talked for so long.   

Speechless, Erik stared at him—his earnest blue eyes, his mussed hair from working all day, and the way he’d lit up as he was speaking.

Charles colored a little bit under Erik’s stunned gaze and coughed.  “Was that a bit much? Raven says I can be…direct.”

Erik couldn't help but smile.  “A bit forthright.  I can’t fathom how you came to that conclusion about me.  Or how you could possibly overlook the things I’ve done.”

“Oh _Erik,_ ” Charles said, somehow plaintive and warm at the same time.  “There’s so much more to you than you know.  I would gladly help you start over here.”

Erik searched for and failed to find any remaining resolve to reject Charles’ offer.  In his experience, Charles seemed more the type to sweep people off their feet than help them get back onto them, but he was a fellow mutant offering acceptance and understanding.  Where else would Erik find such help?  “I do like the apartment,” he finally said, smiling.

Charles returned the smile.  “It’s almost dinner time—why don’t we talk more over a solid meal? I make a shepherd’s pie to die for.” 

Erik wavered.  He _was_ getting a bit hungry.

“It’s not like you have any groceries yet,” Charles pointed out.

“I have money,” Erik insisted, more out of pride than anything else.  “I can get something out.”

“Ah, but do you have standards?” Charles mused.  “That’s the real question.  I am not so sure that you do, my friend.”  Erik bristled, but Charles paid no heed.  “Better for you to have a proper meal at my place.” He stood, offering Erik a hand.  “Come on, let’s go back downstairs so I can close up shop and then we’ll have dinner.”

Erik grasped his hand and stood up.  “If you insist.”

Charles grinned.  “That’s the spirit.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous personal notes:
> 
> -I've had brokers show me actual NYC apartments that had what really looked like claw marks on the walls.  
> -I once had to examine a lot of mid-nineteenth century fine china from the West Village as a plucky young anthropology major.  
> -My beta and I got in a huge fight about what rugelach should be shaped like, but I'm basing Charles' off of NYC's Think Coffee's raspberry rugelaches, which I (perhaps erroneously) recall as being elongated and twisty.  
> -My beta once remarked that she would've liked XMFC a lot more if the game Erik and Charles bonded over was Jenga instead of chess. I threw in Darwin and Sean playing Jenga in the corner as a small nod to that hilarious mental image.


End file.
